7. Abbie
7
ABBIE
T he glass slips in my hand as I try to flip it, barely catching it before it crashes onto the bar top. My heart is pounding, and I can't tell if it's because I'm nervous or excited.
"Smooth recovery." Jennifer, another bartender, winks at me from where she's mixing an Old Fashioned. "You're getting better at the flair moves."
"Thanks, but I think I'll stick to the basics for now." I grab the cocktail shaker. "Manhattan, right?"
"You got this one. Just remember?—"
"Sweet vermouth before the whiskey, two dashes of bitters." The familiar motions come naturally now, my hands steadier than they were two weeks ago. The ice clicks against metal as I shake.
"Look at you, memorizing these recipes like a pro." Jennifer slides her finished drink across the bar with practiced ease. "But I still catch you googling some of the fancy ones under the counter. You aren’t too slick."
Heat climbs up my neck. "That Vesper Martini threw me last night. Who orders those anymore?"
"James Bond wannabes." She laughs, then gestures to a new customer. "Speaking of which?—"
"Sazerac?" The man's barely opened his mouth before I shake my head. "Sorry, that one's still beyond me. Jennifer?"
"I got you, hon." She smiles as she passes. "You handle that group of ladies who just walked in. They look like cosmos and French 75s – your specialty."
The women settle on barstools, and I straighten my shoulders. This I can do. Two weeks of training have taught me that confidence sells drinks as much as skill does. The basic cocktails I've mastered, and the regulars are starting to recognize me. It's the obscure classics that still send me scrambling to Lacey and Jennifer with pleading eyes.
"What can I do for you ladies?" I ask, already reaching for the champagne flutes.
"Three cosmos, one French 75," one of them orders, and I smile at Jennifer's prediction.
My hands move through the familiar motions, muscle memory taking over. The cranberry juice splashes bright against silver, and I feel a flutter of pride. Two weeks ago, I couldn't tell a jigger from a julep strainer. Now? Well, now I'm getting there.
My stomach drops as Michael approaches the bar, his usual stoic expression replaced with concern. Something's wrong.
"Abbie, we've got a situation." He runs a hand over his shaved head. "Jen's shift is almost over, and Lacey's car got rear-ended on her way in. She's dealing with insurance and police reports."
"Oh no, is she?—"
"She's fine, just shaken up. But..." He glances around the already-bustling bar. "Tyler called in with food poisoning, and Emma's got some family emergency. Think you can handle things solo tonight?"
The weight of responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders. Really? They want me to run this place alone? My hands fidget with the bar towel.
"I..." Looking around, I count at least fifteen customers, with more trickling in. The thought of managing them all makes my palms sweat. But then I remember Chandler's smug face, his comments about nannying not being a real job. "Yes. I can do it."
"You sure?" Michael raises an eyebrow. "It's okay if?—"
"I've got this." My voice sounds more confident than I feel. "Lacey and Jen have taught me well. And you'll be around if I need backup, right?"
"I'll be in my office handling paperwork, but yeah, just holler if you need me." He pauses. "The regulars know their usual spots, and weekday nights are usually manageable. You remember the panic button under the bar?"
I nod, patting the discrete button that would bring security running.
"Alright then." He gives me a rare smile. "Show me what you've got, kid."
As Michael walks away, I survey my domain. The gleaming bottles behind me, the polished wood beneath my hands, the growing crowd before me. I can do this. I have to do this.
A man waves from near my workstation, and I straighten my shoulders. Time to prove I can handle this.
The amber lights catch on the polished wood as I wipe down the bar, collecting empty glasses and tidying up the scattered napkins. My curls keep falling in my face, and I blow them away with a frustrated puff. Note to self: bring more hair ties tomorrow. I’ve survived the first two hours alone so far, maybe I really do have this. How hard can keeping customers happy really be?
"Excuse me." A deep voice cuts through the ambient chatter behind me.
The rich timbre makes my spine straighten involuntarily. I turn, cloth still in hand, to find myself face-to-face with one of the most well-dressed men I've ever seen. He's gorgeous, and his suit probably costs so much more than my semester's tuition.
"What’s your poison?" I manage to keep my voice steady, channeling my inner Lacey. She'd know exactly how to handle someone like this.
"I haven't seen you here before." His voice carries a hint of amusement as he settles onto the barstool, adjusting his sleeve cuffs.
"That obvious, huh?" I fumble with a clean glass. "Still fairly new."
"And they've left you alone already?" His eyebrows lift, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Awfully brave of them."
"Or desperate." I tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. "Everyone else called out tonight, and our other bartender had an emergency."
"Ah." He drums his fingers on the bar top, the motion drawing my attention to an expensive-looking watch. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Well, I haven't set anything on fire yet." The words slip out before I can stop them. "Sorry, that was?—"
"Refreshingly honest." He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "I'll have a Bloody Mary. Extra spicy, if you're up for it."
"I’ll do my best." My hands tremble slightly as I unscrew the vodka. "That I think I can handle. Lacey—my trainer—she's got this secret recipe. Taught it to me my first day."
"Lacey has good taste." He watches as I mix the drink, and I'm hyper-aware of every movement. "Though I'm curious to see your interpretation."
My hands hover over the bottles, mind racing through Lacey's recipe. The passion in his gaze makes my skin tingle.
"Let's see..." I grab the vodka, measuring carefully. "She swears by this particular brand."
The celery salt rim has to be perfect. I dampen the glass edge with lime, coating it evenly. No pressure. Just a ridiculously attractive man watching my every move.
"The secret's in the proportions," I say, more to fill the silence than anything else. My hands shake slightly as I add the tomato juice. "And the spice blend."
Worcestershire sauce, three dashes. Hot sauce... Lacey's voice echoes in my head: 'More than you think you need, less than you're afraid of.'
"Interesting technique," he comments, leaning forward slightly. His cologne drifts through the bar – something expensive and subtle that makes my gut flip.
I measure out the horseradish, praying I don't drop it. "The trick is balancing the heat with the other flavors."
The spice mixture is next – Lacey's secret weapon. Black pepper, celery salt, and something else she wouldn't tell me about. I add it carefully, stirring with more concentration than this drink probably deserves.
"Almost done," I murmur, mostly to myself. The garnish has to be right. Celery stalk, obviously, but also a lime wedge and... where did she put those pickled peppers?
I spot them on the top shelf, just out of comfortable reach. Great. Stretching up on my tiptoes, I grab them, very aware of how this must look. My face burns as I add the final touches.
"Here you go." I slide the drink toward him, holding my breath. "Extra spicy, as requested."
He lifts the glass, examining it before taking a sip. My heart thunders inside as I wait for his verdict. Please don't let me have screwed this up. Not sure I could handle being embarrassed by the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on.